So.
I have this ex. The Ex, if you will (and oh, shall we). We dated for four tumultuous years. I would cry to Rich that'd we'd broken up (again) and he'd pat my shoulder with the appropriately sympathetic look on his face and then say, "Hey! Let's watch some Buffy!" and go off skipping. The man was bored with the breakups - who can blame him? I was bored. Well, actually, I was full of angst and confusion and overwhelming amounts of drama. Want to see a typical day? Okay, my chickens little, here it is:
Wake up.
Breakfast (low fat, low cal) She worried about my weight "for my health," even though she was a documented former and unreformed ana and loathed fat people. She liked my chest, hated the accompanying belly fat. You know, "for my health." Yep.
Stumble to work.
Work.
Lunch (low fat, low cal) See aforementioned reasons.
Work.
Sneak in my covert high sugar/salty snack treat. Be consumed with guilt and shame.
Work.
Stagger home.
Fight about going to the gym. Me: "You should love me for who I am!" Her: "You don't care about yourself!"
Break up.
Workout at the gym.
Get back together with a lot of tears.
Eat dinner (low fat, low cal)
Watch TV
Discuss maybe breaking up again.
Decide against it.
Go to bed.
Lather, rinse repeat.
Notice the lack of sex? Yeah, me too. Now stretch that day into FOUR YEARS and tell me you wouldn't walk out of that relationship with major issues and consequentially run through a herd of fucked up alcoholic queers with anger issues (of varying degrees). It's still a wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles that I found the nicest, cutest queer around, Mr. F. Seriously, it's so weird.
Anyway, the Ex decided to run through the old apartment and decided that two years after the breakup would be a good time to send me 18 lbs of my old crap. Clearly, I've been missing it. Or she thinks so at least. In her email of "Hey, I'm sending you 18 lbs of stuff!" she also said, "Hey, I want to be friends now! Let's email each other!"
Um, no.
Good lord no.
How do I go about saying "Um, no. Good lord no" without coming off mega bitch? The girl training in me decrees that I suck it up and email her short missives every so often and be her friend. The rational feminist training in me decrees that I can fill my life with whomever I goddamned please. Obviously, I'm going with the latter.
This is what I'm contemplating as my reply:
Dear Ex,
Thanks so much for sending my 18 lbs of stuff! I'm excited to see what's in it. As for e-mailing, I don't think it's a good idea. You're an awesome person and we had some really good times, but I think we had too much drama for too long to have a real, solid friendship. I hope you're doing okay these days and thanks again for sending my stuff along,
Take care,
Elizabeth
How's that sound? To businessy? Too fake? It's not - it's 100% true but sometimes it's hard to tell what's real in email.
As I've been recently clued into, flah, I say. Flah.
OKC:
Namaste is finished, I just need to block and, gulp, seam. I hate seaming but I figure having a project with a shitlong seam is a good way to get me to do it and hopefully, hate it a little less.
Also, I just found out today that I'm referred to as "The HRC Sticker Girl" at work. I mean, yeah, I have a small HRC sticker hanging up here at work, but that gets me a whole title? I mean, go gay pride and all that, but still. Shiiit, at least I'm not "The Dead Plant Girl," which I could easily, easily be.
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4 comments:
ACK! I remember when you were away and Ex would sit around in the kitchen with a crazed look in her beady coked-up doll eyes* -- with all her witchy hair electrified by the dark forces of Hecate -- and beseechen me, "The next time you talk to E, tell her I'm starving myself so she'll come home sooner." And, in truth, I never much cared for Ex's morose younger brother who would sometimes come make cameos round the flat. But sometimes I think about how I went through that phase that same year of painting my fingernails black (can't remember the exact color -- "Gun Metal" or somesuch), and have similar shivers of regret: Was that really me? WHO was that indecent fellow? How crassly flamboyant-- how foolish -- I was then!
*Please note that Ex was never actually to my knowledge on the wacky dust. Although that would've rendered her all the more tragic and in an entirely more dynamic way somehow -- and I shouldn't have minded her moods so much, as I could've sighed to friends, saying, "It's the drugs, you know, the Big C. Such a pity. It could've been a brilliant career for her. Now everything's ruined... Everything's gone to pot."
But I would write her back and just, either send the e-mail you have drafted, or simply say, "Darling, I've moved on. For you were like a training bra whose coarse, cruel underwires once threatened to immolate me: I have rightly discarded you. Please accept your demise as part of my emotional rubbish -- kindly cease and desist. Good-day, madam, and good luck. I hope you and your teeming Issues have a lovely life together. And there is always that convent you once talked of -- and if no one else is willing to play nursemaid to your sibilant neuroses..."
I kind of bet if she had realized how effective coke is as a diet drug, she'd be all over that shit. But dude, she was so nervous/anxious, can you imagine her on uppers? I shudder at the thought.
And for your version of the email... oh, how I wish! Emotional rubbish indeed!!
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